


Off Your Dot

by screamingatstars



Series: Sanders Sides Color Guard AU [1]
Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Marching Band, Colorguard AU, Gen, How Do I Tag, Short & Sweet, The Author Regrets Nothing, i just wanted this for some reason, kinda vent fic, yes the bois are in a color guard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-22
Updated: 2019-11-22
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:28:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21513820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/screamingatstars/pseuds/screamingatstars
Summary: Virgil gets way off his dot during color guard practice.Kinda a vent-ish thing I wrote randomly for no reason
Relationships: Anxiety | Virgil Sanders & Logic | Logan Sanders, No Romantic Relationship(s)
Series: Sanders Sides Color Guard AU [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1550635
Kudos: 14





	Off Your Dot

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea what this even is, I wrote this thing just out of the blue a couple weeks ago to vent a bit about color guard and I’m just now posting it. The director is very loosely based around my own color guard director so that’s fun, hope you enjoy

“Five, six, out seven-eight and catch!”

Virgil copied his director’s movements as he tossed his flag into the air on cue. Around him, thirty other members of the color guard did the same, with varying degrees of success. The parking lot echoed with the sound of flagpoles hitting the ground.

Virgil’s own flag was under-rotated, and he had to catch it upside down again. He groaned inwardly. The first football game of the season was coming up, and if he couldn’t get his flag a half turn further around and make this catch properly he was going to humiliate himself in front of the entire school at halftime. 

“No, more focus, people! We can’t be dropping this late in the game!” The color guard director yelled. “We’ve been working on this choreography since July, we should only be dropping in the wind at this point, yeah? Let’s run it again from set eleven!”

Virgil sprinted back to his starting dot along with the rest of his team. 

“Set!”

He got into his starting stance, holding the pole vertically with his feet together.

“And five, six, five six seven eight-!” The recording started up, trumpets blasting from the speaker at the front of the field. The entire guard spun into action, Virgil losing himself in the whirl of flags and the tinning metronome. This was when he was focused: when the anxiety couldn’t touch him. After or before a run, he could be a complete wreck, but the second the music started he was just another flag in the line. He knew what he was doing, and as long as he followed his dot-

His dot. Where was it?! He was way off the group! 

No time, just keep spinning-

“Stop!” Yelled the director. The music paused mid-toss, and Virgil scrambled to catch and strip his flag as everyone raced to standby. He looked around and saw the rest of the flags in one long line, two yard lines away from him.

“Virgil!”

Crap. 

He took a deep breath. In for four… hold for seven… out for eight.

“Yes, sir?” He answered, praying he wasn’t about to be yelled at. When Mr. G got angry, he got angry. And he never pulled his punches when you were being singled out in front of everyone.

“You’re way off your drill, you’re supposed to be in a line across the forty-five yard line! Check your dotbook!” Every sentence Mr. G spoke ended with an exclamation mark. 

Virgil hurriedly set his flag on the asphalt and fumbled for his fanny pack, where his phone- and by extension, his digital dotbook- lived during rehearsals. He was keenly aware of his teammate’s eyes on him, and he knew their expressions would either be pitying him or vaguely interested in his discomfort. He pulled up the drill, and sure enough, he hadn’t moved nearly far enough to the left after one of his tosses. He zipped up his phone and ran to his correct spot, sure his face was redder than it already was.

Up at the front of the field, Mr. G checked his watch.

“Okay, go ahead and take five for water, I don’t want to see anyone out here before 4:45, got it? Hydrate your bodies! When we come back we’ll work on page thirty-five, make sure if you’re a rifle you have it set.”

Virgil breathed a sigh of relief and set down his flag, running off the field with everyone else. The humiliation was over. And he wasn’t a rifle, thank god.

A hand tapped his shoulder. He slowed and turned to see it was just Logan there, and relaxed.

“Hey, Lo.” The two of them fell into step, jogging together to the front sideline. Virgil sat down with a groan, only now feeling the growing ache in his limbs. “Just go ahead and kill me, Mr. G, why don’t you,” he muttered as he stretched out his arms and reached for his water. “Put me out of my misery.”

Logan sat down carefully next to him.

“He doesn’t intend to mock you, Virgil,” his friend said. He took a small sip of water. “He’s only doing his job.”

Virgil pushed his sweaty bangs off his forehead and scoffed.

“Duh, like I don’t know that? Come on, Logan, I basically have to get gold in long jump to be able to make that drill. Steps that big should be illegal for short people.” Virgil had been finding that a lot of things about color guard seemed to be a lot harder to do when you were barely 5’3 and had short legs. 

Logan nodded as they both turned their attention to ‘hydrating their bodies!’ Or as the guard liked to call it, hydrate or die-drate. 

“Okay, let’s get back out, run on the field everyone!” Called a captain. “Grab your rifles and get to drill!”

Logan stood easily, waiting for Virgil to push himself to his feet. They rushed back out together, picking up their flags and preparing to move again.

Mr. G yelled last-minute reminders to the weapon line, and then the music was kicking in. Before Virgil knew it, he was throwing his flag to Logan, shifting his attention to the new one being tossed to him. The exchange was flawless, and then they were off, spinning and tossing as one long line of whirling flags. In front of them, the rifle line picked up their weapons, catching one throw each before freezing in place along with the rest of the guard as the music stopped.

“Good, that’s a million times better than yesterday,” said Mr. G. He made eye contact with Virgil, and he tensed, expecting another comment on his stance or his under-rotated silk double. 

Instead, his director smiled. “Much better on drill that time, Virgil, keep it up.”

He let out a breath, not expecting the compliment. Much better. It felt… nice. Really nice, actually. Especially after his colossal screwup before.

“Okay, let’s take it from the top!”

As everyone sprinted to get into starting position, Virgil smiled. He was glowing with newfound confidence after this last run. 

He could do this.

  
  



End file.
